Something Important
by simplysarcastic
Summary: Lily doesn't really like him, that boy with mystery in his eyes, but when he's smiling at her like that, she can't help but wonder why it's so hard to hate him sometimes.


**Disclaimer: **I do believe we've done this before, haven't we? Well – the characters and settings don't belong to me – they're JK Rowling's. And rightfully so.

**Author's Note: **Meh. I edited it, it's still the same story, though. Just... edited. .

**Something Important**

She wouldn't cry, not today. _There were more important things_, she reminds herself, _than _him. Even as the words echo through the endless abyss of her mind, she remembers his smile. That lovely, charming smile that draws people to him like bees to honey infiltrates her, overcoming her defences. _Shame, you shouldn't think of him at times like these_, she lectures herself dully, softly pushing a stand of her hair out of her vision and focusing on the task before her.

A blank sheet of parchment, a snowy-owl quill and half-full bottle of black ink stare back at her. She mutters something dark under her breath as she picks up the quill and runs her forefinger over it, testing it out before pressing it to the vast blankness of the parchment. A minute passes by with her brow furrowed in deep concentration and her bottom lip being chewed on, but nothing appearing on the parchment.

It was hopeless - she knew it just as well as the next person. Alas, but she was stubborn and difficult – she would fight this _handicap_ to the end. She wasn't called bull-headed for no reason. It taunts her, the vacuity of the parchment, the barrenness of where a long stream of graceful calligraphy should flow. It's his fault. It always is.

She should be able to write tales of castles in the skies, of charming men and seductive women. Everything she ever dreamed of: diamond-studded tiaras and gowns made of the finest silks, handsome boys that rode on fiery steeds and towers that touched the moonlit skies. Of growing up, falling in love and overcoming all obstacles.

_Blank._

Just like her mind.

She swirls her quill-tip inside the ink pot, mindlessly running over ideas that suddenly seem overused and pathetic. _Him_. Black hair and hazel eyes, too tall and too skinny – he wasn't as handsome as people made him out to be. Yet he follows her wanderings; something isn't right about the shivers that grip her tired thoughts.

A loud laugh touches upon her ears and she almost knocks over her precariously-balanced jar. She spins around in her chair and faces the well-lit room before her. Sunlight streams from the expansive widows and light the spacious room where an assortment of plush crimson chairs that clash horribly with her hair are spread.

Four boys are there - each as good-looking as his precedent or even more so. Two are dark-haired and dashingly attractive and two are fair and charming. They don't notice her at the slightest; falling into the chairs, still implicated in voluble banter.

"Well, I'd expect him to claim he did nothing," the darkest-skinned says, "he's a snot-nosed ponce, he is."

_How rude_, she thinks to herself and observes them silently. _Whatever made you so hard and callous, Sirius Black?_

"Yeah – then he'll go running to Mummy-dearest, he will!" The smallest and blondest of the foursome cries. He seems excited to be joined in the conversation, for once.

_Oh, Peter_, she thinks dolefully, _whatever happened to the thoughtful, happy boy I once knew?_ For he was once the prettiest boy she ever knew – dishwater-blond hair that curled at the ends and watery eyes that were the nicest shade of deep blue. _You used to make me laugh and smile: what did they ever do?_

"Mates, let's not be so mean," the sandy-haired, bookish one laughs, "we _were_ pretty crude."

_Remus, Remus, Remus: you'll always be my favourite, you'll always hold that special part of my heart. _No matter what happens next, Remus Lupin will remain there, deep inside of her soul. Pale, sickly and lonely – he understands better than they ever will.

"Moony!" And she smiles bitterly, as the bespectacled one says mock-indignantly, "one would think you fancy Snivellus! Tell Prongs, lovey - I promise I won't tell the lads that you're batting for the other team."

The others laugh and her eyes sparkle. _My most beautiful James_, _nothing is ever normal without a dry quip or two from you, is it?_ She pulls her legs under her slouched body and looks at his beautiful face. No matter how nice Remus was, no matter how hard Sirius remained, James Potter would always bring mirth to someone's face.

Their chatter overwhelms her and she basks in their _incredible_ friendship. _Oh, how loyal they were. _She traces her parchment again, the same concept reoccurring in her mind. What a brilliant tale she could weave – a story of friendship, romance and magic spells. If she only dared – which she didn't, of course.

"Evans?"

She turns away from the desk, an eyebrow quirked. What a handsome face he possessed, that Sirius Black. If only it weren't so hardened and acute.

"Yes?" She asks, her voice airy and light. No reason to bristle yet, though his manner and tone clearly hint that he isn't pleased.

"What're you doing here?" Sirius says, "You shouldn't lurk around without a companion."

Her voice betrays her evident humour. "Why, Mr Black, I was under the impression that I was the Head Girl. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this the Head Common Room? I didn't think I needed an escort."

He scowls and turns away.

They continue with their conversation, but it has lost its essence and candour. Her schoolbooks are looking at her from their space in the corner of her maple desk, but she ignores them. All she has to do is a Potions essay and some Charms questions – nothing difficult for her to wrack her brains over. In the corner of her fresh sheet of parchment she scribbles the face of a bespectacled boy, with scrawny limbs and knobbly knees. She taps her wand again, and immediately his eyes are a brilliant emerald-green.

Dark messy hair, childish round specs – she's enjoying creating their child quite too much. Finally, with a satisfied grin, she colours in his maroon jumper and black trousers. _What a charmer you are_, she thinks, _you're very much like your father. _

"Hey, Evans!"

She doesn't turn her head this time, merely jotting down a few nonsensical, gibberish lines. "Yes, Potter?"

"Go out with me?"

"Hmm…" she pretends to think about his proposition, turning to look him in his golden-speckled eyes before replying, "no, I'd think not."

He laughs that truly remarkable laugh that makes her shiver. She can hear her dreamy-eyed friend's voice in her ear whispering, _'Oh, Lily, I detected a frisson between you and James.' _She would look at her and ask dryly, _'A frisson of what?'_ And Emmeline would croon, clutching her shawl to her heart, _'A frisson of pure passion, Lily. You love him, don't you?'_

She always found her flaxen-haired colleague amusing, of that was no small doubt. Yet, the mumbles and drones that Emmeline loved to speak in seemed to occasionally emerge true. Naturally, she wasn't _in love_ with him, but attraction was an immense happening for someone like her and him.

Their eyes were on her. Leisurely, she jiggles her foot and sighs impatiently until they turn back to their discussion. She sweeps her hair out of her vision and surveys the red and swollen skin that surrounds her nails. She scowls, jabbing her slender wand at her right hand and whispering a spell. Her nails and the skin surrounding them are healed. She does the same to her left, with obvious results.

Slipping her wand into the folds of her sweater, she handles her quill and places the sharpened tip to her parchment. For a moment, she ponders what to write. Then, with a graceful, swooping hand, she begins to write:

_He isn't very nice, that boy with mystery in his eyes. He laughs as if it were over something light-hearted and comical, not for the reason that of someone's misfortune. He has beautiful eyes, though, like chocolate and chestnuts and golden arches of silk. He _is_ amusing and witty, if he truly is not thinking about making you laugh. And he has the most familiar smile in the world - this ironic little half-smirk. So when he's smiling with you and his eyes are filled with magic and mystery, spells and laughter, he isn't all that bad._

She tilts her head as she reads the paragraph she's written with a shrewd eye. Ringlets the colour of Titian and cherries, polished copper and the sunset on a jovial day tumble down and along her shoulder, so she coils a strand around her finger. It's quite obvious the boy with the enigmatic eyes -James Potter, I believe- is looking at her back and contemplating something very deep and thoughtful.

So, carefully, she glances over her shoulder and directs a smile at his relaxed form. She isn't sure why, but it feels right anyways. It isn't as if she liked him, right? He looks taken aback for a moment, and humour dances along her expression for a moment, but he quickly smiles at her in that way that reminds her of oceans and sandcastles, of pinstriped umbrellas and feeling warm and toasty.

And it is horribly ironic, in that way that only he can make it.

Nevertheless she doesn't truly like him in that way. There isn't a logical or equitable explanation for why she is so obsessed about him, but she's wholly confident she'll stumble upon it any day now. Because little girls like her and dashing boys like him aren't really meant to fall in love with the other, not in the way falling in love is meant to be.

So she leans into her chair and joggles her foot, sighing and murmuring to her self in a most terribly bored manner. Writing twisted stories isn't especially appealing when her personal life is far from simple. Therefore, she stows away her quill and paper, along with her corked inkpot, and closes all her school books. There isn't much reason in sitting at her desk with jaded look in her green eyes and a sulky pout about her lips.

Feeling very unaccomplished and strange, she escapes the narrow space that she is allowed and slings her bag across her shoulder. He was still staring at her, that weird bugger of a boy. She is in a snappy mood, so she turns and openly glowers at the messy-haired boy on the sopha. He grins in an utterly charming, vague way that makes her uneasy because it hasn't ever lost its paradoxical air.

"Will you please cease staring at me?" She says sharply and hides behind a veil of fire, "It's rather unnerving and not at all pleasant."

He continues smiling at her, though the uncertainty has morphed into something completely different that she can't exactly read.

"Really? I'm dreadfully sorry that I unnerve you so terribly, Miss Evans." He drawls and her heart sinks ever-so-slightly because she knows that he isn't intimidated by her masks, "Would you like me to remove my eyeballs from their sockets lest my gaze happens upon you ever again, Your Royal Highness?"

And she finds herself clutching the dregs of ashes and her mask wiped away. She quivers slightly and the washed-away fire is renewed in the shadows of her eyes, "Why, Potter, I thought you'd never ask! Do, please, you'll find most girls will believe that an improvement – your lecherous, filthy looks won't plague as many nightmares and undress as many bodies."

He laughs in a completely lackadaisical way along with his friends – though she finds the sandy-haired boy and the blond boy aren't laughing as heartily. Internally, she thanks them for the sediment of compassion and understanding they still possess.

When she looks over at him again, he's standing up leisurely, in that way only he can pull off without looking slothful. "C'mon, Evans, take a walk with me?" He asks with a twitch of the corner of his mouth, and directs a sideways glance at her.

And she isn't sure if it's the way he says it, or the heartstrings that his eyes and smile pull, but she ignores the inherent "no" that almost pries itself from between her lips and smiles undauntedly as she replies, "sure, might as well."

For a moment, they stare at her. Then, the rakishly handsome boy cries out in surprise and the boy with sandy-hair gestures with his hands. A moment later, he – Sirius Black – gives the pale-skinned boy a handful of golden coins and they share a good lark.

She feels his hand on her arm and she almost pulls away from his touch, but something – perhaps the tingles in the pit of her stomach or his incongruous smirk – makes her stop and beam in return. He seems so very tall, towering over her and most erstwhile ordinary people.

"Coming, Evans?" He asks, entangling his fingers with hers and slipping her bag off her shoulder and onto his.

And she isn't exactly certain why he makes her want to kiss him, or why her mind runs away with her heart when he looks at her with those eyes – but she doesn't honestly care one whit because he's smiling at her, and that's all that matters. So she waltzes away with him, liking this game of pretend. Because they don't really like each other, not in that way, but playing pretend is easy when he's around.

Everything is.

As they walk along the trodden path and interweaving corridors that she holds dearly to her heart, sparks dance before her eyes and his breath feels upon the fiery crown of her head. He is awfully attractive, but not really, that James Potter, that her throat feels oddly constricted when his hand tightens on hers.

She feels the need for conversation swell in the depth of her stomach and she feels inept in the presence of his ironic smile. Words that never had difficulty coming from between her lips bubble above the surface, but never escape the confines of her thoughts. _Oh, speak, Lily, he'll think of you as a right fool if you remain mute_, she thinks and doesn't exactly know why she started caring.

She clears her throat with a quiet 'ahem'. "So, Potter, what's your opinion on Chocolate Frogs?" She says loudly, before realising that it wasn't anywhere near what she had wanted to ask in the first place. A deep rouge flushes her face and she winces visibly.

There went her pride, hand-in-hand with her dignity.

He looks at her with those mysterious eyes and that smile dances on his features. "I'm not a big Chocolate Frog fan – Honeydukes Specialty Bars are for the real men."

And it takes her a moment to realise he's teasing. She laughs and smiles along with him, feeling incredibly lucky that he had let her escape from that certain failure at conversation. "Agreed. Though, I must say, Sugar Quills are rather delightful."

"Alas, you bookish girl, you!" He exclaims and spins her around his arm. She narrowly misses falling over, but finds that she doesn't care all that much. "You'll be the ruination of us all – you and Remus, that is."

She pretends to swoon and fall back into his arms, fluttering her eyelashes and swishing her hair around for added effect. He catches her, narrowly missing being smacked with her ornery, wavering arm. And for a moment, they forget that they're supposed to be mortal enemies and that they don't like each other in that way – because he smells like her favourite tea and her hair is the perfect mix of the colours of red.

Then the moment draws to an end and they stare at each other, caught in an awkward position with laughter dying on their lips. Because she's meant to be the uptight, wallflower-esque swot that has her pretty hair tied in a stringent knot atop her head and he's the boy who taunts her and has girls everywhere that want to marry him, at least for a little while.

He sets her back to the ground and reality crashes upon their imprudent, naive heads. They're not supposed to be in love, or like each other in any way – there's something that isn't exactly sound about it. He's an outrageous Marauder and she's an austere Prefect – two different worlds that never make sense together. For some reason, however, when they're laughing and dancing and forgetting that about society and the universe's rules – it makes sense.

"Do you still like me?" She asks softly and doesn't exactly meet his esoteric eyes.

He stalls. "Of course I'm fond of you, Evans!"

"Are you sweet on me? In _that_ way?" She says and runs a finger over his hand.

When he doesn't answer, she stares at their shoes and pretends that it doesn't really matter – not as if she draws their children on the corners of her assignments and secretly watches him because he's just _that_ pretty. That uncomfortable awkwardness that everyone experiences once-in-a-while covers them and plays with their feelings and emotions.

She really wants to kiss him.

She isn't exactly convinced _why_, but she knows that he makes her laugh when he isn't trying and that he doesn't like Chocolate Frogs either and that he's one of the most beautiful boys she's ever seen. Because he isn't exactly a man but he grew out the title of little boy a long time ago. The enthralling scent of ginger, cinnamon and cloves and something else, but she isn't exactly sure _what_,fill her nostrils and she looks up at him, half-scared and half-apprehensive.

"Yes."

And she wants to laugh and dance – to bury all those age-old memories and start anew. Instead, she tilts her head and cocks her hips to the side. "Really?"

He rolls his eyes and smiles. "I s'pouse so. A sad sod, aren't I – obsessing about this girl that hasn't shown the slightest interest in all these years?"

"Somewhat," she admits and curls a strand of hair around her finger. Some habits never die, and she's happy they don't. Because subsequently he might've forgotten that he cared.

"Did you know that you have forty-five freckles on your face?" He asks and smiles that familiar smile.

"Not until now," she admits and takes his other hand into hers. "Did you know have the most mysterious eyes?"

"I didn't even know that eyes could be mysterious." He claims dryly and draws her so close that she can feel the heat radiate off his body and absorb into hers. He reminds her of so many things that she can't exactly recall them all.

And she isn't exactly sure if it's his eyes that are filled with mystery, magic and spells – like every wizard's should – or his satirical smirk, but she decides to kiss him on the lips. Even if she doesn't really like him _that_ way.

With her arms wrapped around his neck and his around her waist, she forgets to feel self-conscious and doubt her meagre abilities, she forgets that they aren't supposed to be kissing – all she knows that kissing him is really sort of, kind of fun. And nice. Because even though his glasses are bumping into the bridge of her nose and he isn't quite as handsome as Sirius Black, she doesn't mind a load of other things – which seem much more crucial and eminent when his lips feel so soft.

When she pulls away and sighs she remembers that she wasn't really meant to kiss him. But he's smiling at her and he feels so pleasant – that it doesn't really matter, anyways. She meets his eyes with hers and he smiles that ironic smile and his eyes gleam with magic and spells - and suddenly she realises that she never really cared about all those things in the first place.

Because some thing's more important than being exactly what is expected - and she believes she has just found it.

x- fin.


End file.
